Reflections

What I didn’t know then was how difficult life can get. When I hear giggling girls on an afternoon visit to the library, I too remember a time when everything was a giggle. Nothing seemed all that serious to me and I wondered what was wrong with the adults. Life just was; looking back there seemed to be more sun light, more joy. I want to tell the girls to hold onto the laughter, pack some in a jar with a tight lid, for times when they’re older.
When sorting out my dad’s belongings, I came across a box of old photos. The subjects looking back out of their rectangles of frozen time were from family gatherings, friend’s get-togethers, school pictures and places we’d vacationed at as a family. Special times captured forever in their instant, better than one’s own mental recall, and able to kindle the emotions anew.
Carefree, living in the now, the occupants captured in the miniature time capsules saw only bright futures ahead. Loose plans would jell up when needed. Grown-up responsibilities were far off on the horizon. All that was important and necessary was to enjoy being with cousins and friends. Sharing these good times is what I remember most clearly, especially summer days in the warm sun with the light sparkling off the water at Crystal Lake. Floating in inner tubes with our legs connected to someone else’s tube, we’d bob along like a row of ducklings towed by the surrogate mother, a wooden rowboat full of the bigger cousins. The underwater path was worn through the lake grass from diving one after another off the same spot on the dock. The cannonball contests which were usually won by my cousin Ray who was then and still is chunky.
In high school, we hung out in a group, few of us paired off for individual dates. We had nicknames for each other, not bad or hurtful names that you’d never outgrow. Endearment’s to show you cared were based on variations of last names. Miff, Mickey or Smitty were a few. The light in our eyes seems different in the old photographs. A trick of the camera and film produced more sparkle or were the eyes not yet dulled by major disappointments, hurts or setbacks. Eyes full of life expecting the best in each situation that would be encountered.
Life was simpler then or just remembered that way. What I didn’t know then was how complex life can get. The surface doesn’t always reflect the truth. That there are a million shades of black and white. Our memories have a way of softening the hard times by surrounding them in diffused light to make them more palatable and safe to recall.
Dark days don’t spring to mind as easily, but there were some in my youth. Painful times were interspaced with the good. It takes loads of them over the years, varying in size and intensity, to dull the eyes and the senses. I had a brother whose reputation preceded me through school. “Oh, you’re Albert’s sister.” A trial before a crime this conviction greeted me each year. In high school, a crush so intense that walking past “him” in the hall was unbearable without the support of friends. No date for the Junior Prom, a rite of passage missed. Simultaneous splitting up of the cousins and the school group of friends at graduation, we knew that it would never be the same as we went our individual ways. These were just a start of what was to come.
The good and bad accumulate to make us who we are. Perspective changes us as we age but underneath it all, under all the layers of protective covering we’ve installed to pad our journey, our eyes are still bright. The laughter may not be as cascading as childhood giggles that once started are like a slow motion avalanche taking everything in its path into the chorus. When sifting through boxes of old photographs or poring over neglected family albums, we reaffirm who we are and from whence we came. Our tenuous hold on life can be reviewed and processed to assure our continuity.
What I didn’t know then was that wisdom gained gives insight into the nuances of daily trials and tribulations which then enables us to live each day fully. Strength and encouragement come from mentors, family or a network of friends, as each phase of the journey begins and ends. Full circle... the dance continues filled with laughter and tears, joys and sorrows, ups and downs with a million shades of black and white until completion.

EMM 5/11/98

Emergency Room

Wringing my hands, I sat frozen in a windowless room. Wringing my hands, they had me locked away from emergency room action: mind numb with images, emotions overloaded by the bombardment of recent events, visual recollections ricocheting around the corners of my mind. The force of thoughts slowed my body to a motionless state. Lips sealed tight against sound. Too filled with apprehension to pace, I sat glued to an arm chair of standard hospital issue. Waiting, waiting an eternity for the word trying to catch a thought, thoughts made slippery from the friction of motion.

“She’s in here” a peering face from partial open door announced to the hall. Crisply stated in my direction, “You can use the phone, bathroom is across the hall.” Mechanical rules delivered without thought. No comfort. No word. The face disappeared. The door shushed a reply.
Coiled like a viper, the phone sat ready to strike. Black, menacing, backed into a corner. Light reflections, fluorescent flickering, illuminated its round edges. The spots of light on the sleek surface drew my hand to the only object for communication. Numbers, trying to pull phone numbers to feed the uncoiled serpent cradled in my hand. Maniacal thoughts raced on, unstoppable. Thoughts set in motion creating a life of their own, perpetuating them by careening off each other: energy begetting energy.

Forcing past the whirling dervish vortex, I located a darkened section where names and phone numbers were scattered. Shaking uncontrollably, my dialing digit spasmodically jumped from number to number. Answering machine, an answering machine… A voice sobbing, I heard a voice sobbing relating the debilitating event to a machine. Totally incoherent babbling to be interpreted by whom... who did I dial? Brigitte... the goat woman... Brigitte, the pragmatic German picked up disconnecting the recording. Picking words from my gibberish, making sense enough to respond with words of courage and strength. Her familiar voice helped in pulling me back from the brink.
Amidst total chaos, another number floated to the surface. A gasping, choking voice passed over wires, electronic impulses invisible to sight, wires to wires to Eileen. I longed to be in her kitchen, a safe haven filled with seasonal scents. Idle chats enhanced by cups of Almond Sunset Tea... mundane moments of sharing. Wired to her sunny yellow kitchen, her calm soothing voice travelled to my blue fluorescent cell. A spot of sun radiating warmth; sobbing, I wait for the word.

4 o'clock rituals

Gurgles. Chugs and gurgles in rhythmic patterns announced the afternoon ritual. At precisely quarter to four, the coffee pot began to beat out the time in splunks and glugs. The car door slamming at four o’clock and measured footfalls on the pea stone driveway coincided with the coffeepots final burst. The kitchen scene was set with The Hartford Courant in place, the grey Formica table cleared, and the coffee poured into a mug. Year in year out with few variations, the lunch pail was placed on the sink counter, thermos rinsed, milk added to the steaming mug and with a quick peck on Mom’s cheek Dad would turn to sit down. Silence - Newspaper pages turned, coffee swallowed, and supper prepared quietly through this wind down time.
Caffeine released into a tired body soon brought him back from his work experience. Complaints would spill out, filling the air with punctuations until the available sounding boards had absorbed the trials of his day. Maniacal supervisor, Murphy’s Law in action, or the unbelievable routines of the goof-off crew which included the waste of expensive material tumbled out until the stream ran dry.
Supper was served with small talk about day’s events or idle chatter about friends and family while the television droned out the news from its corner in the living room. A monotone with splashes of commercial volume, neither conversation nor television background was too heavy. Indigestion was to be avoided. Once the meal was eaten, the table was cleared. A shared chore as each of us piled the remains onto the drain board. Unlike other households where the dish washing fell to our friend’s chore list, my brother and I were free to begin homework or catch a TV program.
Gazing out the kitchen window over the double enamel sink, Mom and Dad did the dishes. Every night, side by side with elbows bumping, Dad sloshed the sudsy hot water in the deep white sink washing more than the dishes. Periodically he stopped to spray soap residue away, while Mom dried and put everything away. The quiet murmur of conversation drifted into the living room during lulls in the programming. Summer breezes through winter sleet, they washed and gazed together.
The pendulum electric clock buzzed from its perch on the wall. Black metal hands moving time forward as daily rituals began and ended. Late night cups of dark tea consumed while forearms supported weary bodies that leaned into the grey table surface. The table’s chromed legs dulled by wear met glossy polished green linoleum. A few perfect triangles marred the surface from the iron leaping from the rickety ironing board during morning ironing sessions. The tea bag toss with Mom’s load protest splattered gravity defying droplets of tea upward toward the sink window. Midnight found Mom sitting at the table with a warm cup of milk and a Sear’s catalog to slow down her revved up mind. Endless games of solitaire or twenty-one illuminated by the domed ceiling light whiled away winter nights.
In summer with shades pulled to create the illusion of coolness in the half light, sweat ran in rivulets as Mom and I peeled blanched tomatoes before cramming them into sterilized mason jars. The cellar door was left ajar to omit its cooling dampness. The aroma of Bread & Butter Pickles clung to us, the cheap perfume of summer pickling. Dad, Mom and I chopped, sliced and diced bushels of our gardens riches, corn, green and yellow beans, eggplant and peppers. Canning shelves were weighed down by summer’s end with jellies, jams, pickles, canned tomatoes and relish. The freezer full to capacity with summer’s frozen produce.
Life revolved around this 15 by 15 foot space. Our kitchen, unimaginative and under equipped by today’s standards, functioned as an all purpose room for ironing, meal preparation and consuming, bill paying, homework center and more throughout each day and night. The sunny yellow walls, stenciled cabinets, gingham curtains, chrome coffee pot, white enamel electric stove and refrigerator were witness to our families ups and downs. Emotions bounced off the semi-gloss walls and echoed up the stairway. Listening from my bedroom door through the years, the fights my parents had over and with my brother crawled up the stairs to greet me.
My brother, older by five years, preceded me through school. I looked up to him when I was really little despite the “big boy” tricks that were played on me by him and his friends. Their two favorites were running off to leave me alone in the woods or making me test their skill at bridge construction. Crying, I’d stumble home let down by my big brother again. In winter, bloody noses from ice covered snowballs with rocks inside were my bane.
Trouble attracted my brother like a magnet. Whatever his friends or even our cousins suggested to him, he would do. Blame or a guilty sentence was not a burden to either group. All fingers pointed unwavering to my brother, the scapegoat. Escalated from his youth through his teens and beyond, his crimes were not drastic by today’s standards. His petty offenses and misbehavior plagued my parents. I grew more aware during my elementary school years especially with comments from teachers in September of “Oh, your Albert’s sister”. It was the tone of their voice that hurt me; they expected the worst from the onset. More writing on the walls or drawing on the playground with discarded stolen chalk from a waste basket. The weight of remarks as well as my brother’s behavior was too much for my little frame to move out of the way or sidestep around. This shadow loomed over me constantly. My unspoken goal was not to cause my parents or teachers any problems. This no problem and good behavior strategy made me almost invisible as I minced my way through each year but his troubles increased.Information on my brother’s activities came through my friends. Scrubbing away at the dishes, my parents tried to clean up the problem. Active in the Masonic Lodge and Eastern Star, their thorn was visible to everyone. Their problem solving discussions did not include me. Tears, frustration and anger exploded around and at my brother. Unscathed his journey continued. My burden increased.
I became a comedian; a ready quip or a bit of wit to carry me over the rough spots. Hiding behind a smile, I could make my parents or others laugh. This clown just might get them to forget who I was related to.